


To Fulfill a Promise.

by StrandsofNehn



Series: For the Love of SJM [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: "whore" being Ianthe, F/M, Gen, Nesta POV, Nesta puts on Illyrian leathers., hints at nessian, mentions of azriel, mentions of feyre, post acomaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrandsofNehn/pseuds/StrandsofNehn
Summary: I recently read A Court of Mist and Fury by Sarah J. Maas. Yup. It was amazing, and here is my tribute. Nesta is my absolute favorite. Or you know- one of them. This is when the claws come out for her post ACOMAF as I picture it. All characters are copyright of Maas.





	To Fulfill a Promise.

  
Cassian, the fae-male brute, is dangerous. Dangerous for an assortment of reasons. Most of which Nesta does not care to think about. But, there is one that Nesta has… come to admire about him.

It's a pillar of his character, so natural, so deeply-entrenched in him Cassian, as he is, wouldn’t exist without it.

Cassian is a protector-- a guardian. Velaris and it’s people are as dear to him as Elain is to her. And for those people, Cassian, the bastard-born, fae fool, will fight and kill and maim and lie and do anything to keep them safe.

Everything Cassian is, it all boils down to a promise. A promise to them-- his people, his family. His court. A promise to ensure and maintain and avenge.

Vengeance is an ideal that Nesta has always held close to her. Now, it has become the entire forefront of her mind.

Nesta looks from the sight outside the window, over at her battered sister, still so quiet. Ever since that fool fae-male _Lucien_  declared his grand delusion Elain has been… not herself. Nesta feels a fire burn in the core of her, a hot, scalding hatred as she looks at Elain. Her sister. _Elain_. 

Her face is pale and the small freckles she had from gardening have faded, much like the light that was always present in her brown eyes. It was always there, even when they had nothing and only Feyre to keep them alive. Even when their good-for-nothing, craven father had failed them so utterly, Elain had been good. Kind. _Vibrant_.

Now, Elain stares at the glass of the window of the House of Wind-- the glass, not at the city below. Not the flowers that bloomed just outside the window. And not at the training yard outside where Azriel and Cassian sparred with their fae-blades and fae-tempers.

When Nesta’s gaze falls on the patchwork wings on Cassian’s back the burning wrath in her flares even more. Time would only tell if he could ever use them again- and more time to tell if they would ever serve him as they once did. The torment of it is set in the bruises under his eyes, the tightness of his jaw as he sends blow after blow to Azriel. She can see it in every glance he sends her way, the way his hazel eyes linger on her fae face, her preternatural stillness. When he looks at Elain-- beauty unreal.

She wants to kill him for every time he looks at Elain.

He _promised_. He swore an _oath_. Doesn’t a fucking oath mean anything to these _fae bastards_?

But. Nesta is an intelligent woman, and she can see through the red mist of her rage and hate. She knows who is to blame.

And hopefully her youngest sister is presently slicing that whore up into bite-sized pieces.

Nesta glances down, to the illyrian fighting leathers on her bed. To the knife belt. Then, to the mirror. To the dress she feels the most comfortable in with its lavender sleeves and bodice, the matching skirts. The most reminiscent thing she now has to her old clothes-- her old life. It’s beautiful.

She is beautiful, in a different way than before. Too beautiful, she thinks, as she studies her reflection. Feyre’s eyes look back at her, her mother’s eyes. Pale, and grey-blue-- the eyes of powerful women. Of noble women, fighters, queens. Of backbone and strength.

There are days when that gaze seems to laugh at her. Others, it rallies her. Those are days where she can take in the sight of her too-perfect, exactly symmetrical face, her porcelain-smooth skin, full lips and terrifying, breathtaking eyes and smile. Smile wickedly. Nesta has no qualms about any extreme she may have to take to make her enemies _pay_. For what they had done to Elain, to both her sisters, to _her_.

She can appreciate the irony of the body that blasted little-man and his cowering, sellout queens Made her into will be the one to shred their immortal souls into ribbons of smoke and cinders.

Nesta stares at the leathers again. The knife belt. Elain is still sitting on the bed, but her eyes have gone from the glass, to her hands. Nesta can practically feel what her sister is thinking- too long- too strong- too delicate. Too _wrong_. Then, Elain's finger brushes against the iron ring still on her finger. It's such a delicate touch. Almost reverent.

Just watching it feels like a brand being seared into Nesta's soul. Again. And again.

And she'll have eternity to burn with it. They both will.

Nesta feels her eyes harden at the sight of that caress and with them, her resolve. She starts unlacing her lavender bodice, cursing at how long it’s taking her before she finally loses her patience. A cacophony of splitting seams and tearing fabric floods the still room as she rips the dress from her. She throws it aside, and ignores Elain’s stare as she starts pulling on the leathers.

They fit well, and she feels deadly. Alight with flame and rage and fury. As shrewd and cold as the After.

She picks up the belt and eyes it, trying to discern how to put it on. Eventually, she steps into it and successfully secures it on the first try, sheathing the blades Morrigan gave her. Cassian offered to train her and, as hopeless as he is, the Commander of the Night Court armies must be worth something in the field of combat training. She tightens the last buckle, flexes her toes in the new, black boots and looks back out at the males. They haven’t stopped.

Yes, Feyre may have the conniving little priestess. Let her sister explode simpering bitch into a burst of light and power.

The queens and King of Hybern will answer to _her._

_Nesta._

She strides to the door, an unspoken threat to all who had made enemy of her in each step. Each footfall an echo of that one finger she cast at that fool king-- a promise. Her promise. Herself as she became that promise.

She opens the door and struts down the hall, to outside. And she thinks she may understand why Cassian and Feyre love the fae armor.

Nesta has long perfected the gait of a predator, the poise of a queen, in dresses that sigh along polished floors and rags that muddied on dirt floors, both. But her booted feet, the sheer length of stride achievable in the fighting leathers has her transforming with each heavy-soled step.

It feels like her presence is growing, rippling like fire with her movements and honing into a bladed edge-- an ice-wreathed knife.

Forged in the depths of her unending rage, her wrath is cold. She feels that ancient power she stole roil in her bones, so deep and innate, a part of her now. But not her at all.

It's the void of the ocean's depths, something she took from that vast, endless dark.

A weapon.

A chunk of self for the self she lost.

They Made her into a monster. They stole Elain's light. They took Feyre away.

The males stop as she approaches. Nesta barks an order at Cassian to start training her already- or is he all talk?- and feels a sick sort of pleasure at the thought of becoming a weapon. Lethal. To have a body as quick and sharp and piercing as her intellect. To use it to carve off the King’s head and toss _him_ into that damn Cauldron to be Unmade in water and black mist and pain.

They forced her into a shape her soul does not match.

Cassian moves towards her, beckoning her to join him in the ring without comment back to her-- no retaliation.

She looks again at his wings, at the skin being carefully regrown, at the male who tried to save her and her sister from the Cauldron, even prone, maimed and nearly unable to keep conscious. Her jaw sets.

Vengeance.

Oh, yes.

Nesta will have vengeance.


End file.
